


To the Point of Invention

by plant_boi_potter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Falling In Love, Hit Wizard Harry Potter, Inventor Draco Malfoy, Lab Technician Pansy Parkinson, M/M, Moody’s Eye, No actual sex, Wand Regulations, bad language, broken glasses, inventions, kind of slow burn, sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26077687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plant_boi_potter/pseuds/plant_boi_potter
Summary: Draco is tasked with not only figuring out how a thirty year old magical eye works but he’s also been lumped with making Potter some remedy for his idiocy. The man breaks his glasses more often than the Weasley snaps his wand. Maybe he can kill two birds with one stone, although he really shouldn’t contaminate this piece of work and sabotage his already tenuous chance at a career.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	To the Point of Invention

Draco studied the eye carefully as it rolled around his desk. No matter what he did, the thing just wouldn’t stay still - he had the scratches to prove it; angry, red lines stemming from the tips of his fingers. They only started to fade to a light pink at the second knuckle.

It wasn’t the eye’s fault - not exactly. It had been encased in bronze when it was brought to him, stuck fast into a round, firm seal - like a ring. The casing had been tight, cold and hard on his fingers as he tried to wedge them in between the cracks. He would have worn gloves, had the job not been what it was.

The eye jumped again, responding to his touch.

The latex of the newly issued mandate gloves didn’t allow it to respond at all. He’d spent countless nights trying until he finally pulled them off in a huff, wadding them into a tight ball, which he watched unravel as they went sailing through the air. Then the eye had wriggled.

It had rotated to fix itself to him. Staring, blue and unblinking as he tried to grapple with what he was seeing. Sure, magic: but what kind? It certainly wasn’t still attached to it’s user in any way: from what Draco understood, he was long dead.

Even if there were office rumours about the man being shrewd enough to go into hiding, Draco doubted it was very likely, considering the fact that his eye was on Draco’s desk.

Or it had been.

He watched with a mix of horror and fascination as the eye rolled over itself, leaving a slug like trail around the lip of his desk before teetering on the edge. He made a grab for it and missed, the eye plummeting to the floor with barely a sound.

It would have rolled out of the door if not for the lone glove that barricaded it in. He breathed out, running a hand through his hair as he realised a single blue ball of latex that had missed the bin yesterday evening might have just saved his job.

“I hate you.” Draco said to no one in particular, but maybe he was talking to the eye, of which he was already bending to scoop up, trying not to recoil at the slightly sticky residue it left on his naked flesh.  
The clock in the hall let out an almighty gong and Draco jumped, clamping his hands over the eye as he did so. It squirmed like a trapped spider beneath his palms as he headed for the cabinet by the wall, easing the metal box open with an elbow.

As the clock let out another loud reverberation Draco placed the eye in it’s box - all the while feeling the dread that came with locking a small animal in a cage.

“Just because it moves doesn’t mean it’s still alive - if it ever was to begin with. Mad Eye is dead and, with all intents and purposes, so is that thing.” He told himself as he picked the glove from the floor, dropping it into the bin as he left. He bit the inside of his cheek as he listened to the slow rattle of the eye slamming back and forth against the lock on the box.

* * *

The canteen was loud and hot as Harry made his way to the front of the queue. It snaked from the kitchens, weaving around the tables and chairs before stopping at the mouth of the building.

The mint green double doors were supposed to be inviting but they reminded Harry of a hospital. They opened and he gawked a little at the blonde head that emerged, sweat made the platinum go a dishwater colour but Harry could tell it was him. He didn’t leave the place, or it felt like it. Maybe they were experimenting on him. It sure looked like it, the man drawn and haggard from wherever he had been, or maybe from wherever he was going. He wouldn’t ask.

He turned back to the line guiltily as it shuffled forward, the hot food calling to him, aggressively reminding him that he’d skipped breakfast.

It took Harry all of two minutes to deliberate between a bacon roll and the egg salad. He pushed his tray onto the cramped table next to Ron. “Where’s ‘Mione?”

Ron nodded to the back of the hall where the Level Fours usually sat, his freckles shifting from red to blonde under the sunlight streaming from the windows. Hermione, indeed, sat with them, instead of with the Level Sixes like she usually did.

They were allowed to move around, of course, but when you worked alongside people, you usually ate alongside them too. It wasn’t out of any sort of grudge on Hermione’s part, but she was in work from at least 9-5 and that included her break times. She couldn’t discuss work outside of the Ministry for security reasons, and even if she did, neither Ron nor Harry would care that much.

They would care because they were her friends, but not because they were actually interested in whatever she was doing for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Harry took a bite of his bacon roll. “I’m sort of glad she’s not here, she’d have a fit if she saw me eating this.”

“Because it’s the least healthy option on the menu or because it contains meat?” Ron asked, tucking into his salad.

“Both. Where’d you get that?” Harry pointed to the chicken bits scattered across Ron’s dish. They were certainly not on the menu from what Harry had seen.

“Romilda slipped me some from under the counter. Don’t look at me like that, it’s chicken not a substance charm.”

“As if you could ever be sure with her.” Harry glared pointedly at Romilda. She stood behind the counter with the sour face of a school matron. One black eyebrow arched, her red-lipped mouth in a permanent pout. Her clear gloves shimmered tightly against her slim wrists, her wand shoved through the middle of her wild hair.

“I swear she’s the only one who can get away with that anymore.” Ron smiled at her and she dipped her head in an acknowledgement of the extra chicken. He stared forlornly toward the double doors leading outside, the wand box stuck to the wall.

No wands in the cafeteria. No wands in the paperwork rooms unless they were in a box by the desk. No wands in the Atrium. Offensive weaponry causes terror attacks printed on black metal signs above all the doors. Harry wondered how Draco felt about it before recoiling. No one deserved to feel sorry for that bastard, least of all him.

He looked Ron in the eye as he swallowed the rest of his bun. “Why’s it always food with you? I’d feel less disturbed if you were having an affair.”

Ron grinned before fixing his gaze on Hermione, his eyes going bright and soft all at the same time as he watched her pop a piece of lettuce in her mouth before taking a stack of folders under one arm, her wedding ring glinting in the light as she moved. “Never.”

* * *

Harry lifted his newly mangled glasses from the dirt, carrying them between his thumb and forefinger as he inched himself off the field. An explosion sounded as he crouched behind a rock to fiddle with his glasses in peace.

“Oculus Reparo.” He tried for what felt like the hundredth time. The glasses didn’t budge. Repairing spells may be good but they couldn’t salvage the blown apart glass that had landed at his feet prior, or the wonky frame. He was surprised they’d held up this long. As he thought it, the bridge between both halves broke.

“Oculus Reparo.” this one did nothing but shock Harry’s fingers, his wand wavering as he tried to concentrate on the now blurry foreground that was his hand. Another explosion hit a rock a few metres away and Harry dropped his already mangled glasses into the dirt so he could roll into a ball. “Shit.”

“Potter! Get your arse back here!”

Harry scrambled to his feet, almost slipping on the stones under him as he did so. “Yes, sir!” God, he hated drills.

Robards didn’t look angry, which was usually worse. He sighed heavily, dragging his hand down his face in a gesture that he seemed to reserve solely for Harry. “Potter, what the hell?”

“Broke my glasses, sir.” Harry jerked his head back to where a single arm was poking out of the rubble he’d kicked up.

“Again?”

“It’s not exactly intentional. Sir. But if you haven’t noticed, we don’thave access to anything better than those.” Harry jerked his thumb in a general backwards direction, even though his glasses were half buried in ash. “Now, since I can’t see, can I go off field?” Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning. He couldn’t see Robards’ face but he could guess it wasn’t amused.

“If you weren’t such a good Hit Wizard those eyes would be your downfall.” Robards’ was talking to Harry’s back. By the end of his sentence Harry was across the grass and ripping a hole in the charm against the door.

Harry sealed the charm shut again as he watched Robards’ figure come closer, no doubt shouting something obscene at Harry as he dived between the people with clipboards that were clustered in small groups around the windows. He only glanced back once, his stupid eyes converting the lab coats to snowballs of white amidst the greying afternoon sky.

* * *

“What do you want? I'm in the middle of something.” Draco didn’t even look up as he placed the eye in a stable mix of solutions on his desk. His notes were stacked neatly, at least an inch thick with information crammed onto the pages as if he’d run out of paper.

“Oh. Gawain. What can I do for you?” Draco tapped his fingers on the underside of his desk. He hated people interrupting him, especially people who weren’t actually his boss, double for when they thought they could order him around anyway. Robards was of no exception.

“That’s Head Auror Robards to you boy.”

Oh, here we go. Draco tapped faster.

“Head Auror Robards, then.” He focused on the eye, noting specifics before grabbing his wand. He watched Robards flinch and felt a tendril of guilt leap from his stomach. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing in the Department of Mysteries? Are you lost?”

“If I had jurisdiction to fire you I would have you out on your ear.” Robards had shifted backwards, closer to the door, even though Draco had his wand pointed intently at the eye, magnifying parts of it so he could note down things he couldn’t immediately see.

“Well, you don’t, so, either tell me what you’re doing in my space or leave. Shut the door behind you.”  
“I need you to do something about Potter.”

Draco dropped his wand, the eye shrinking back to its original size. It floated gently down to the bottom of the jar as his wand clattered in between the fine line of space between the jar and the stack of papers. He turned around fully, one hand gripping his desk. “What about him?”

“As soon as you find out what that thing does, I want Potter down here immediately. I need him fitted with something that lets him do his job properly.”

Draco sighed, shrugging a little, his black lab coat falling from a shoulder, “even without my detest for Hit Wizards, Potter included, this is the only specimen of its kind.”

“Specimen.” Robards sniffed. “It’s hardly alive - a bit like Death Eaters in that respect.” It was hardly said under his breath, and with stiff resolve Draco turned back around, indicating the conversation was over.

In the same instance, the eyeball thudded against the tank, hard enough to break the glass. Solution spilled and Draco grabbed his wand, managing to throw up a shield as glass pieces flung themselves outward, embedding themselves in neat diagonal rows in the wall behind him.

Draco resolved that he definitely wouldn’t be building anything for anyone, especially Harry Potter.

He lowered the shield and whisked away the broken glass. The eye was surprisingly unharmed. When he turned back around, Draco was faced with an empty room. Robards had left. The door, however, was swinging on it’s latch.

* * *

“Offensive weapon my arse. It’s not a gun, it’s useful. If they really wanted to bring about change maybe they could stop equipping the damn things with offensive spells. Make them like the Unforgivables.”

Harry had been talking since they’d swung out of the Atrium doors, half the Ministry flooing to their respective homes or the pub.

“I mean, it’s only us with these useless signs. And the drop boxes… I’d understand if they decided to update the equipment but I’m not allowed so much as a ballpoint pen!”

He’d been relegated to the back office where, officially, he’d been filing paperwork. In reality he’d been making paper aeroplanes while waiting for his new glasses to come in. They’d arrived on his desk at ten to two that afternoon and he’d barely shut up about being able to see again before Hermione had brought up the wand conversation.

They were in a huddle near the floo, where quite a large wizard was attempting to squeeze himself into the space available.

Hermione and Ron (after some sharp words from his wife) went to help, joined quickly by Hannah Abbot and Ernie McMillon.

Only Harry was left, looking around the Atrium like he’d never seen it before—great glass windows lording over the statue at the end of the large expanse of polished wood that was the floor, although marks from hundreds of witches and wizards had scuffed it near where the floo resided.

He looked up, eyes skimming past the windows of the upper levels of the Ministry where people were scurrying about like moths in a tank. His eyes rested on the top floor: Level One; the offices of the Minister. He watched Kingsley swoop around the room as an unidentifiable man stood, statuesque at the door, refusing to move into the light. No matter how much Harry squinted, he couldn’t make out who it was—until, of course, Draco Malfoy apparated into the Atrium with a loud pop.

They were almost nose to nose. “Potter.” Draco nodded curtly. “The minister wants to see you.”

Malfoy hadn’t been fired then.

He must be up to something.

“Are you coming?” Draco asked, bored.

“With you?”

“I don’t like it much myself, Potter but what Robards wants Robards gets.” Draco’s neutrally disapproving face disintegrated into that of a sour lemon. Before Harry could answer, they were gone.

* * *

The word test subject was used a lot, Shacklebolt waving his arms around like an energetic turnstile.

“And if it doesn’t work? If I render your best Hit Wizard blind?” Draco almost spat the words, refusing to come in, to sit down, to have a glass of water, Draco, please.

“It will.”

“How are you so sure?” Draco squinted.

“Because Harry is the best at what he does.” Kingsley held up a hand. “I would want nothing less than the best for him. That’s where you come in.”

Shacklebolt was about the only person in the place to treat his profession with any amount of respect. The compliment was inferred but it was more than direct enough for Draco, Kingsley was more understanding—and understandable—than his father had been, he didn’t want to be the one to ruin such a tenuous relationship.

“Please go and tell Harry I would like to see him.”

“Why me?” His voice came out whiny and infantile. Draco bit his lip. “Fine. Why do you want him, again?”

“That’s classified information Mr. Malfoy. You know that.” Shacklebolt smiled a little.

“Either you’re going to convince him to work with me or you’re going to give him a dressing down because he used his paid leave to bully Robards into letting him do paperwork.” Draco curled his fingers into quotation marks.

Shacklebolt’s eyebrows shot up.

“Look sir, you didn’t hear it from me but you might want to check his bin for paper aeroplanes.”

And with that, Draco vanished, the wispy grey trace the only thing left to indicate he’d apparated away.

* * *

“You have got to leave, right now.” Draco was whispering, his breath hot on Harry’s face as he yanked him into the closet. It smelled clean. Like disinfectant, a lemony smell. Harry, with his messed up uniform and muddy face breathed it in. “Are you even listening to me… you smell like a pigsty what on Earth have you been doing?”

“Quidditch.” Harry lied, thinking about how he had been caught sneaking onto the training ground on his lunch hour. Why am I in a broom cupboard?” If it were anyone else Harry would have jumped on the defensive but Draco, while clean, wasn’t in any fit state to kidnap him. He had dark circles under his eyes, almost purple in the low light coming from the single candle-case hanging from the ceiling. “Don’t you ever get any sleep?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?”

“You locked me in a cupboard.”

“You snuck into my lab! I have the authorization to kill you.”

“No you don’t.” Harry said.

Draco thought about this for a moment, the tip of his wand tapping against his chin. “I concede.” With that he dumped himself at Harry’s feet, legs crossed.

Tipping his head back, Draco shut his eyes. “Carry on, then.”

“What…” for a second Harry was thrown, swallowing as he looked down at Draco’s mussed fringe and spiderweb eyelids.

“Whatever you were going to ask.” He lifted a hand, piano teeth fingers caressing the air in an attempt to ask Harry to talk, in not so many words. “Ask away.”

“I… don’t remember what I was saying.” Harry’s mouth was dry. It was hot here, maybe he was claustrophobic. Or maybe he just didn’t like the idea of a hundred tonnes of dirt weighing him down from above. Maybe he didn’t like the thought of being dead.

“Too much.”

“What?” Harry was snapped from his existentialism like a rubber band.

“You talk too much. Ask too many questions.” Draco was sounding it out slowly, as if he was reading from a baby book.

“Malfoy are you drunk?”

Draco opened his eyes, moonstones in every aspect; wide and granite grey. His lips parted and in those seconds he turned into a painting. He was marble until he started giggling, a laugh bubbling up from so deep in his stomach that his head ended up falling forward, his whole body shaking. “Drunk, Potter? Are you mad?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do then? You wouldn’t shut me in a cupboard if you didn’t do something.”

Draco searched his trouser pockets, eventually coming up with an empty phial.

Harry spent no more than a minute glancing over the ingredients, eventually finding a name imprinted on the cork seal.

“You made this?” Harry said in a whisper. “How?”

“If I told you it wouldn’t be a mystery.” Draco rolled his eyes before yawning. “I was tired, Potter. I’ve been awake since four trying to perfect that.”

“Oh shove off Malfoy, from what I can gather it’s basically wizard LASIK. It’s not exactly the idea of the century.”

“What’s… never mind that. I need your arm.”

“Why?” Harry narrowed his eyes, but presented his forearm.

Draco sighed, but made little more complaint as he folded over Harry’s shirt fabric until he got enough to work on.

“And have you? Perfected it I mean- OW!” Harry yanked his arm away from Draco’s long fingers, as a long red mark started to appear.

“No or I wouldn’t still be here and you wouldn’t be squeaking in pain.” Draco hissed, pausing to rub his eyes.

“I don’t squeak.”

“Sure you don’t.” Draco tried to smirk but it was cut off by a yawn.

“I’m seeing stars.” He said to no one in particular.

“You need to go to bed.”

“Maybe.” Draco acknowledged, slumping forward a second later.

* * *

“Good morning.”

Draco sat up, hitting his head on the bed frame as he did so and for one horrible moment he was back in the manor. But Voldemort’s voice didn’t ever sound as honey-sweet, the cadence dipping down like oaken wood. Bright yellow to a deep rich brown. He struggled to open his eyes.

“I fell asleep. If you’re one of my father's friends, kindly leave me alone.”

“Did you hit your head Malfoy?”

Obediently, Draco felt around his temples and ran his hand through his hair. He heard a soft swear word come from the end of the bed, ignoring it in favour of the feeling of his hands in his scalp. “Maybe.” Draco shrugged.

There was some rustling before the voice spoke again. “Can I check?”

Draco nodded, immediately tense until the hands went in, rooting around for a swelling. He sunk into the feeling.

“You might have a concussion. Or memory loss or something.” The voice didn’t sound sure.

Draco cracked an eye open, immediately shutting it again as he found himself caught by the sun. “Potter, why are you in my house?”

“You’re in my house.” Harry pointed out delicately.

“Oh. Right. Why am I in your house?” Draco didn’t quite believe it was a dream—everything was too defined for that—but he couldn’t process how he’d got here at all. The last thing he remembered was…

Potter in a cupboard with him?

That had to be a dream.

“You fell asleep and I didn’t know what to do.”

Well, that was unhelpful.

His stomach rumbled. “Can you make me breakfast?”

Harry looked thrown for a minute before deciding it was better than arguing. After all, Draco might have a concussion and that concussion might be Harry’s fault.

Draco didn’t have a concussion. He told Harry as much after Harry had made him breakfast.

“I’m so tired the days have sort of blended together.”

“How long have you been…” Harry gestured to the bruises under Draco's eyes, lighter but no less prominent.

“A month… maybe two.”

Harry put his head in his hands, slumping into a rounded armchair that was tucked beside the window to Draco’s left. “This is my fault isn’t it?”

“What? Why would it be your fault I’ve had Moody’s eye since before…”

“You have my dead teacher’s eye? That’s what you’re experimenting on?”

“When you put it like that it does sound bad. But you saw how your arm reacted and that eye is almost an exact working model of a human eye.”

“Do you have no sense of morality whatsoever? I thought I’d killed you! And then I thought I’d given you amnesia for Merlin’s sake! I was ready to forgive you-”

“Only after you thought I’d died. Duly noted.”

“Tit-for-tat.” Harry said shortly.

* * *

_Harry Potter is dead ringing out across the courtyard. Draco breaking ranks. Sprinting towards Harry’s body like he was a sinking lifeboat. “No!”_

Draco blinked the image away. “Right.”

He pushed his eggs around his plate. “It’s very resilient, you know. If you want to see it.”

“Are you mocking me?” Harry swung his legs over the side of the chair and Draco pushed his plate off his lap.

“No.”

They turned together as light started to paint the room, watching the sunrise in silence.

* * *

“Robards told me Shaklebolt was taking me off the case.”

“Why would he do that?” Pansy gave Draco a look that was both sharp and sad.

“I haven’t been sleeping. Apparently. If they didn’t require me to use my wand only for necessities then I wouldn’t have to stay there for several hours after my shift.”

“Do you want to get drunk?”

“Quite possibly”.

* * *

Pansy drank her wine in long gulps, making a face every time, her dark red lips bunching together in the worst way.

“You look like all my great aunts rolled into one.” Draco took a sip of his own wine.

“You have a wine stain on your shirt.” Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Harry would think it was a new thing for the elite.” Draco said. He sounded wistful.

“He’s Harry now is he?” Pansy rolled her eyes fondly. “He wasn’t Harry before. What changed?” She kicked him playfully under the table.

“His eyes.” Draco whispered. Almost as if he were sharing a secret.

* * *

He was roaring drunk, his arm slung loosely around Pansy’s. Someone had taken a camera out. He didn’t know who. He didn’t particularly care.

Someone said “cheese” and he thought it was the funniest phrase on earth. Who, upon being asked to smile, said cheese? Draco threw his head back in merriment and chose, in that moment, to be happy.

* * *

“Come on then.”

Harry had to power-walk to keep up, Draco weaving in and out of doors and around tables with the nimble ease of a gazelle, leaving Harry yards behind. If Robards were to see him he’d definitely be brought up on how he was neglecting his exercise regime.

He screwed up his nose, not wanting to think about Robards at all, let alone while he was sneaking around the underbelly of the only wizarding government building in London. To take his mind off what they were doing - which he still felt uneasy about, regardless of how legal it would have been if he’d taken his superiors up on their offer - he talked. A lot.

So much that after five minutes Draco stopped, swinging around on his toes so fast that Harry almost barrelled into him.

“Could you not shut up for two seconds?” Draco hissed.

Harry grinned. It felt like the perfect opportunity to annoy the man. “No.”

“Why is it imperative for you to ruin what I’m building?”

“Because I don’t know what you are building. You say you have the eye but how do I know that? How do I know you aren’t leading me around so you can kill me?” He hadn’t really thought about it before voicing it but now it was a very sudden reality.

“For a Hit Wizard you talk a lot.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Have you stopped though? When I told you the first time did you even consider why I was informing you at all? You work for the government! You handle their secrets!”

“No I don't.” Harry scrambled to keep up as Draco started walking again, if possible, he was being even brisker than before. “They trust me with jack shit. They want powerful, not smart. That’s why they keep you people around.”

“You People?” Draco breathed out of his nose heavily, the only audible noise other than their footfalls. “Taking a leaf out of Robards book are we?”

Harry made a face at Draco’s back as he yanked another gold-flaking door open. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He gasped.  
He didn’t have a chance to find out.

* * *

Draco was about to answer another of Potters’ idiot questions as he yanked the door open to his studio. He had been expecting to perfunctorily apologise for the mess - no matter where he is or what he’s doing, he’s still his mother’s son and she took a selective pride in the manor and it’s gardens like no other.

There was no mess. No reams of parchment, no glass phials, and no eye. It was almost as if the place had been ransacked in reverse. “Shit, fuck, I’m going to be-” Draco rotated slowly, trying not to tap; on his leg, or the tables or the wobbling shelves at the back of the room.

It wasn’t completely empty, but everything of importance had gone.

He could see Harry in his peripheral and he faltered, self-conscious.

“They’ve taken me off the case. I didn’t promise to fix your stupid eyes and they took me off the bloody case.” He said as calmly as he could, his voice barely shaking.

Withdrawing his long fingers from where they were skating along the dusty surfaces of a back shelf. He stalked toward the table in the middle of the room. It was dark wood, but he couldn’t decipher the grain, from the amount he’d spilled on it over the years.

He grabbed the sides, the feel of the cold wood between his fingers grounding. “What the hell have they done with my research?”

“There’s a knob on the side.” Harry nodded to his left. Draco grimaced on impulse but it was more because it was Harry who had noticed something he hadn’t. In his office, nonetheless.

It turned out it wasn’t so much a knob as it was a crank. A small hand crank jutting out from the side of the table, hidden only by the wide tabletop.

“Go on then, open it!”

“I’m sorry Potter, but upon finding my desk looking like a jack-in-a-box my first inclination is not to wind it up.” He sniffed. Clowns were not his strong suit. “They’re creepy.”

“They’re creepy because they’re supposed to trap the devil, God, it’s like you never even read A History Of Magic.” Potter cracked a smile.

“You read anything in A History Of Magic? And remembered it? I refuse to believe that.” Draco rolled his eyes, starting to crank the box, slow and methodical. A deathly hush fell over them. “I don’t know why I was expecting music notes. It’s worse without.”

“You’re upset.” Harry had clocked it at the time Draco had started tapping, he did it when he was frustrated. He’d noticed it when he awoke in Harry’s house, an automatic reaching of his hand to the bedside table. Tap first, wake later.

“And yes, actually.” Harry was still talking. “I read every one of my school books under the covers with a torch the first year. It was like stepping into fantasy-land. You can’t imagine how boring maths was in primary for me to actively want to read things.”

Harry felt like he should be uncomfortable about this tenuous friendship - a bridge formed by a mutual hatred of authority, while simultaneously needing a job.

The silence was too much. “Do you believe wands are offensive weapons?” The question came from nowhere but Harry needed to know. Once again, like a lot of things with Draco these days, what he got was not what he expected.

“Yes.” There was no hesitation and no follow up, Draco’s eyes intent on the cranking of the handle under his desk, his other palm splayed across its surface.

He didn’t prod further. Anything pertaining to the war was shaky ground for the both of them, he knew that more than anything.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to show me whatever you were working on, it seemed important to you.”

Draco nodded. The desk clicked, the whole thing popping open like the desk of a Victorian schoolchild. His lips pressed together in a thin line, the pink of his lips whitening around the edges. “No going back now.”

* * *

They stared, incredulous. The desk was organised; neat piles of parchment pushed against the edges of the inside of it, while phials of liquids were cuddled together in a box. The eye was front and centre. It looked up from the jar of saline solution it was sat in.

“Draco, what the fuck.”

It was the first time Harry had said his name.

* * *

“I don’t know.” Draco did look genuinely confused as he eyed his belongings that had been packed away into the large desk.

He immediately reached for his gloves. “There has to be fingerprints or…” whatever he was doing, he wasn’t talking to Harry anymore.

“Would you like me to leave?”

Draco whipped around with the ferocity of a viper. “No. You’re a witness.” It took him another five seconds to say “I bet it was Robards.”

“And you came to this conclusion how?”

Harry stared at Draco as he dropped single sheets of plastic into filmy bags with some forceps.

Draco wasn’t a lab technician but he wasn’t an idiot either. If he got his possessions down to fingerprint analysis he could get results within the hour—if he promised Pansy he’d come over later for some cream scones and pink wine.

“He was snooping around the other day, calling me some names. The usual. But I’m more focused on the other stuff.”

“The other stuff?” Harry took a chair from under the table, wincing as it was dragged along the floor.

“If I had jurisdiction to fire you I would have you out on your ear.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I bet he’s tampered with the evidence, tried to make me look incompetent or some such, all because I said I wouldn’t work on your stupid eyes. I’m not an optometrist. I’m studying the eye, nothing else.”

“You think Robards’ is capable of whatever you do? Seriously?” Harry was skeptical. “And there’s no evidence. You found your stuff in your lab.”

He hated his boss for a lot of reasons but trying to tamper with staff space was out of the question. The war had wreaked havoc on the inside of the Ministry, turning a team against each other was a Death Eater tactic and Harry wanted no part in it.

“I don’t think he’s able to concoct anything remotely near what I’m trying to do but that’s not really the point is it? It doesn’t have to add up it just has to be believable enough for me to be demoted at least.”

“Maybe.” Harry still didn’t believe it but he chose to keep his thoughts to himself. He’d watched Draco go through about six different emotions in the past ten minutes and the one he chose now was anger, slamming glass bottles into bags as if they were unbreakable.

“I’m not going home tonight, I’ll try to kill someone. Maybe myself. Could I stay with you? For tonight?”

“Why?” Harry narrowed his eyes before relaxing. He didn’t want hurt Draco.

This, for some reason, was a revelation to him.

* * *

While this was, by all means, not exactly new territory for Harry, it was for Draco, who hadn’t remembered anything about the night in the cupboard.

All he knew was he felt safer in Grimmauld Place than he ever had anywhere else and whether it was the house welcoming him as a member of it’s family or Harry’s presence, Draco wasn’t going to argue with it.

* * *

Harry looked at Draco’s perpetually tired eyes and still-frazzled hair and decided it might be a good idea for him to stay somewhere where he might actually sleep.

He also thought some other things but they were definitely more down to his lack of a sex life and absolutely nothing to do with the hint of clavicle under Draco’s shirt.

* * *

“I think I did something illegal.”

Draco was seated at the kitchen table, his hands shaking around a warm mug of tea. It had been hot but for the last ten minutes it had remained untouched, being slowly cooled by the roaring wind that was coming through the cracks in a window pane.

Harry turned around too quickly, almost knocking himself out on a cupboard. “You think? Everything you ever do is illegal.”

“But when you do it 100 points to Gryffindor.” Draco mimicked Dumbledore’s accent, badly, as he pushed his tea away to rest his head on the table.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What was it this time?”

Draco tried to look offended but his heart just wasn’t in it. “I wouldn’t work on your eyes for the good of the world or the glory of the Ministry. While I was learning about Project EYE I was… doing some things on the side. Did you hear nothing of my rant in my lab?”

Harry nodded, biting into a piece of heavily buttered toast.

Draco grimaced. “You’re trying to have a heart attack.”

“What things?” Harry asked. He rubbed his head before taking a seat opposite Draco. “I won’t grass if that’s what you’re thinking. Robards is an arsehole.”

Draco gave him a weak smile. “That’s one thing we agree on.”

* * *

“I don’t know whether this is protocol or orthodox but your secret’s safe with me.” Pansy winked at Harry before turning back to the multiple plastic bags piled up on the tray in front of her. “Now. Please go away. I have things to do. Not you darling.”

Draco turned back around as if she’d physically taken hold of his shirt and pulled him. “So, what’s all this about?” She nodded to the door Harry had left through, a delicate eyebrow arching upwards.

“What’s what all about?”

Pansy groaned. “You’re even starting to sound like him. What happened to manners, Malfoy.”

“What happened to doing your work, Parkinson?” Draco smiled as Pansy glared at him before starting to carefully unstick the seals from the bags that had been haphazardly thrown into the tray on her desk.

“I’m doing you a favour, remember. I could be having a nice cup of tea right about now but-”

Draco rolled his eyes skyward. She was so passive aggressive sometimes. “Would you like me to make you some tea, Pansy?”

“If you would, darling.”

Draco glared at the glass cabinet full of wands before moving to switch the kettle on in the small ‘tea room’ off to the side of the lab.

“Make sure you wash your hands before coming back in here!”

“Honestly.” Draco tapped the counter as he waited for the kettle—the longest three minutes of his life. “Does she think I’m incompetent without a wand in my hand?”

“Yes!” Came the ensuing answer from behind the door.

* * *

“Here’s your tea, you whiny bint.”

“Oh thank you Pansy for doing me a huge favour even though I don’t see you anymore because I’ve been eye-fucking 600 pieces of parchment and also Harry Potter.”

“I’ve been what now?”

“Parchment, Draco. It’s the thing I’m currently testing for fingerprints because you’re not only bizarre, but possibly paranoid.” Pansy held up the yellowing paper as if it were irrefutable proof that everything she said was true. “Shaklebolt wouldn’t fire you he’s like… weirdly nice to you.”

“I’m not eye-fucking Potter.”

Pansy always had an absolute need to wind him up, but she was doing him a favour when she could be drinking her tea in the staff “kitchen”; read: cupboard and not wasting pairs of rubber gloves like they grew on trees. Draco took the bait.

“Sure you aren’t. You just climbed a tree to watch Potter for no reason in fifth year.” Pansy wasn’t even looking at him as her bob fell forward, concentrating wholeheartedly on fingerprint-dusting. “And you waxed lyrical about him for two hours in the pub.”

“That was one time! And besides, he hates me. Wait, I what?”

“Didn’t look like he hated you ten minutes ago darling.”

Pansy let the various powders to soak up whatever they could find and clasped her tea in two hands.

“Gloves, Pans.” Draco nodded towards her latex encased fingers.

“Shit.” Pansy laughed. “I don’t suppose I’ll be getting any sleepover invites to Potter’s will I?”

* * *

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances as Harry pulled another chair out from the dining room. Sheepishly he evanesco’ed another pair of glasses.

“So…” Ron looked from Draco to Hermione and back again. “What the fuck is going on?” His eyes settled on Harry, as if he could answer, or even formulate words to describe what was currently happening in Hermione’s living room.

“Language, Ron!” “Language, Weasley!”

It hadn’t started like this.

It had started as expected, with Hermione pulling Harry into the kitchen by the sleeve of his jumper to demand what was going on. “As an adult I thought I was above punching people but right now I feel like I’m not.”

Her eyebrows shot above her hairline as Harry responded with “we can leave if you want.”

Not he can leave. We. Together.

And she couldn’t have Harry coming into her house just to leave again, with Draco Malfoy of all people. So they sat.

Harry in an armchair by the fire, with Ron leaning against his knee, gangly legs stretched out on the rug. Hermione sat herself on one end of the sofa so Draco was forced to sit on the other; stiff and awkward like a jointed marionette.

And then she’d started talking about Mermaid Rights.

* * *

Ron got up, unwillingly from where he had been pulling cat hair from the rug.

“So, all I’m saying is they could be a little more respectful in regards to such an ancient language.” Hermione looked up expectantly.

Ron nodded, confused but supportive. But it was Draco who asked, “can you speak Mermish?” The tension was thick enough to put a knife through.

“Because I can teach you if you want.” He backtracked immediately. “Or I could put you through to someone to help you learn.”

“No.” Harry was so glad to have his wand back from the dratted wand-box as he floated plates of casserole through the partition.

“I can-” Draco fell silent as Harry glared at him.

“Thanks Harry.” Hermione smiled as she Ever since the legislation of stricter wand policy, Hermione had decided to, in her words, live better. Most of which involved putting her wand in the cupboard upstairs for allotted periods of time.

Pointing at Draco, Harry continued. “You need about a weeks worth of sleep first, don’t argue with me. I know you get up in the middle of the night to write down your ideas.”

“I can sleep whenever I want, thank you very much.”

“If you did sleep.”

Draco opened his mouth but then closed it again.

“I can sleep all the time now I’ve been fired.” Draco grumbled.

Harry looked exasperated. “Shacklebolt wouldn’t do that.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that.”

“Because he acts like a dad?” Ron pointed out.

* * *

Somehow they’d fallen into comfortable conversation, pushing childhoods under the rug and the chairs—anywhere they’d fit, so for once the war couldn’t touch anything.

It had claimed their heads but they didn’t have to let it touch their hearts.

* * *

“I don’t need your pity, you know.”

Draco, as the tallest, was pulling glasses down from the kitchen cabinet and handing them one at a time to Hermione.

“It’s not pity. It’s humanity. Punching you once was satisfying enough. Don’t make me do it again.”

“Oh. Then, thank you.”

She placed the sleep potion on the table before walking back into the living room, leaving Draco clutching the tiny bottle like it would save his life.

* * *

“This is a wonderful casserole Hermione.”

Ron looked offended. “If Hermione ever cooks in this house, with or without the help of magic, call St. Mungo’s from the nearest telephone box because we won’t have a house any more.” Ron said, digging into the food.

“Are you always like this?” Draco asked, bewildered that Hermione wasn’t outraged. “Why?”

“Not always. We’re comfortable enough to be able to gently rib each other. I do it to Ron too, usually whenever he tries to tell me that a cheese toasty is a balanced diet.”

Harry laughed as Draco tried to put two and two together. The fact that Ron could cook really well-put-together, balanced meals and still resorted to eating the worst combinations of those foods himself seemed like an enigma to him.

“So, Harry. What about your glasses?” Ron asked.

Harry swore before putting his fork down. “I thought no one saw that.”

“That’s it.” Draco announced. “As soon as we leave I’m going to force you to watch me make this Sight Solution. I’ll get it right this time.”

“Your papers are with Pansy.” Harry reminded him, as if Draco could forget.

“Pansy?” Ron asked.

“I’ll tell you later”, Hermione smiled, full of conspiratory.

Draco went pink.

If he was going to prison for anything it wouldn’t be theft of government documents or breaking and entering or even unlawful use of potion ingredients without a licence. It was going to be for the cold-blooded murder of Pansy Colette Parkinson.

* * *

“I still think I did something illegal.”

Draco was sat on Harry’s sofa, prodding the buttons on the remote control as if they’d bite him.

“Understandable.” Harry sat down. “Are you still talking about Robards? Because if he tries to claim you’ve been fired, sue him.”

“I was half expecting you to try to come to my rescue again.”

“No way, I’m done with all that. You’re an adult and you have a bunch of money, even if you choose to live in that torn up apartment you can’t hide from your privilege so use it. I know you have in the past. You still do.”

* * *

_Draco’s handwriting was abominable. The swirling script squeezing into every available space on the reams of parchment that were balanced almost everywhere in the pokey flat. Even the towel rail couldn’t be spared and he had to watch the paper curling at the edges as he soaped his shoulders under the steaming water._

_He’d be awake until four if he didn’t go to bed right now._

_It was storming outside. The sound was soothing, so at least he had that._

_The door-knocker banged so loudly he thought someone might try to break in, but no._

_One look out of his bedroom window showed Harry, illuminated by street lamps, soaking wet and brandishing some sort of Muggle food in a bag._

* * *

“Like I don’t use it already. The reason I’m living there is…”

“...because of all your privately funded orphanages I know.” Harry rolled his eyes but he smiled a little, pushing his glasses up his nose. “And before you say anything I know it was you because your fathers an arsehole and he’s the only one who lives anywhere near you who has a rivalling amount of money. I don’t want you to think I was snooping that one time I brought you Chinese food.”

So Harry was thinking about it too. That was good to know.

“Sure you don’t have a plaque but everyone with working eyes knows it’s you.”

“You don’t have working eyes.” Draco said before he could stop himself.

To his surprise, Harry laughed.

“Well, maybe you can fix that for me.”

* * *

Draco, while bouncing on his heels from excitement, looked at Harry like he’d won the lottery—trying to communicate how much he didn’t need his approval, and also how much he did.

It all twisted together, a mess inside him as he started explaining: all retina and optic nerve. Cones and colour perception.  
Refractions. Dilation.

“Your issue is with your macula… or fovea I haven’t figured out which yet since they’re so close together— look up?”

Harry did as he was told, trying not to squirm as his sofa turned into a temporary chair-lift and he, a temporary test subject.

* * *

The next day he was back on the sofa, Draco’s jaw soft and fuzzy around the edges of his vision.

“Just need to fix the near-response. Your cornea should then work better.”

“Are you aware I don’t speak eye anatomy?” He didn’t say it meanly, it was just a stated fact, like a secret shared between only them, this small admittance of ignorance.

Draco smiled as he fiddled with the drops. “If I started with the words ‘I’m just gonna disintegrate part of your eye.’ I doubt you would have let me anywhere near them.”

“Wait what!”

* * *

“Have you ever looked at someone and thought am I a dumbass?” Harry said out of the blue as he watched Draco mix another ingredient into a glass bottle—an already hazy lilac liquid starting to emerge—while he was cross-legged on his carpet

“Have you ever looked at someone and not seen a grey blob?” Draco replied as he mixed something wet and slimy into an unappetising substance to his right.

“Fuck off.”

“In a minute. Put this on your arm to see if that patch numbs.”

* * *

Harry had ended up on the sofa again. This time lying down. Draco was kneeling over him, all talk of numbing and slight twitchiness.

“This is the most unorthodox position you could have put yourself in.” Harry said. From his vantage point, Draco was as fuzzy as he had been every time Harry had to remove his glasses, all soft and sweet, like a rippling puddle or a streetlight after you try to focus on it for too long.

“Is it?” Draco seemed not to have noticed.

His leg was slung over the side of the sofa as Draco slid in between Harry’s limbs, moving his eyelids with gentle thumb pads.

Harry focused very hard on trying to swallow.

Then the phone rang.

* * *

“Yes Minister. I’ll tell him.” Harry hung up. He walked into the living room in order to tell Draco what he’d just learned but he was struck dumb by the sheer magnitude of Draco’s ideas.

He was surrounded by bottles and notes and “Hermione gave me a sleep potion. Turns out I can read my own writing when my wrist isn’t shaking from constant insomnia. I figured out where I went wrong.” He grinned like he’d won a prize and Harry couldn’t help but ask him if he wanted a hug.

Draco leapt up as if he was being told all the homeless youth of London would be fed, bounding across the room like a touch-starved lover.

“Are you sure you want this?”

Draco found himself talking into Harry’s hair.

“I asked you if you wanted a hug, so yes, you can assume I want one too.”

The response was so snarky that Draco heard Pansy in his head “You’re even starting to sound like him.”

He pushed it away, focusing on the curl gently pressing up against his nose instead. “I mean the surgery.”

“Are you really asking if I want to see properly?” Harry pulled away. “This isn’t a movie. Just like I’m not the saviour of the wizarding world—I can’t see and I don’t want to be a martyr for the blind in the same way. My glasses keep breaking and although I don’t know why, it doesn’t matter. I’m not brave in my suffering.” Harry breathes out, aware he was getting riled.

Breathing more slowly he tried again. “You’re offering me a solution. I'm not just going to walk away from that. I considered it and the pros outweigh the cons.”

“Oh.” Draco hesitated. “Is that all you want me for? Because if I misread anything…” he stepped away, hands clasped at his front.

“You didn’t.”

Hardy stepped towards him and Draco turned away. “I can only do so much physical contact…”

He didn’t have to explain. Harry just nodded. He went to sit on the sofa instead. “So, please explain my living room?”

* * *

“So, this one is the numbing solution.” Draco sloshed an orange substance around in the phial before pulling the stopper. What had formally presented itself as a warm gelatinous goo was now fluid, thanks to Draco testing and retesting types of numbing agent and ratios of magical interference.

If Harry kept looking at him like that he was almost sure he’d drop it. He decided to focus on talking, telling him useless facts and the ingredients and about the distilling process.

Harry just smiled up at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

They were so green. Like velvet, or the sea around the Hebrides where he went on holiday with his mother once.

Draco took a breath and measured the drops before asking Harry to blink. Hard.

“You can’t have dust in your eyes or it’ll stay there forever.”

“Will it?”

“No! Of course not!”

Draco laughed before proceeding to nudge himself in between Harry’s knees. “Lie down.”

His eyes flickered to Harry’s stomach, his shoulders, his cheekbones. He was going to _die_.

* * *

“All done!”

“Are we?” The question was loaded. Unintentional.

Draco ignored it, instead settling back on his haunches. “You don’t seem as excited as you should be.” It came out as a question.

“I’m happy, Draco. I just have… more immediate problems.”

Harry could see clearly for the first time in his life. He also had a man sat on his bladder. “Could you move? Please?”

“Sorry.” Draco didn’t sound sorry at all as he moved, standing up only to immediately sit back down again.

While Harry went to the bathroom Draco took stock of the living room. A photo of him was perched on the corner of the bookcase. He was laughing about something over wine at the pub with Pansy. He left the sofa, walking over to see it better.

His eyes were bright and his arm was slung around his friends. His hair was glossy, catching the light of the lense. His chin was a little less pointed when he laughed. He looked, for once in his life, like the angel his mother said she thought he was.

He never saw himself like this. And Harry had decided to put it on his bookcase. So he could watch Draco laugh over and over again.

He never saw himself like this.

But Harry did.

Wow.

* * *

Harry came back to Draco staring at his bookshelf. He flushed.

“Pansy said I could have it. She said you wouldn’t mind. I was going to ask you but you were so happy to tell me about your invention that I didn’t get the chance”.

Draco turned around slowly, taking Harry in. His thick rumpled hair, his glasses-less eyes wide and green and beautiful against the warm beige of his skin. He stepped forward, to take a closer look, he told himself firmly.

Harry looked at him. Not through him, like he’d previously thought, but at him. He almost stopped breathing.

“I model my work on Halstead.” He said softly.

* * *

Draco was a lot of things. He was intelligent. He laughed loudly. He was oddly chivalrous when he was trying not to impress people he hated. Draco was a full, realised person, all sharp edges and fine lines.

Harry reached to touch the pores on his cheek before pulling his hand back right before he touched him.

“Do you want to stay like this?”

They stood in silence as Draco processed this.

“Yes.” He said, finally, before adding “what is… this?”

“Maybe everything. Maybe nothing at all.” Harry pressed his forehead against Draco’s. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Draco nodded.

* * *

When Harry was finally able to think again he remembered Kingsley. “Shaklebolt called the house phone by the way. It was along the lines of Robards being put on permanent suspension?”

“I don’t really care about him right now.” This time, when Harry went to touch him, Draco did not pull away. They stood, forehead pressed against one another, watching the racing flecks swirling around each other’s eyes.

Grey and green, each looking into the universe. The planets of their eyes staring like they wanted to belong in the other man’s gravitational pull.

“Actually, no. I do care.” Draco said, breaking the spell. “Fuck Robards, he deserves it.”

“Fuck me. I deserve it too.”

“Oh.”

* * *

“Who’s Halsted?” Harry asked, his head propped up on his knuckles.

Harry’s bed was different to the one Draco had slept in, but he wasn’t thinking about anything other than Harry’s legs entwined in his.

“He was an inventor. Muggle-Born, not that it matters.” Draco rolled over to face Harry, who was watching him intensely.

“His wife… She was a St. Mungo’s nurse. He noticed her hands were chapped when she came back from surgery. He invented rubber gloves. Specifically for her. I can’t believe you didn’t know about it but then again, not your area of expertise. It’s one of my favourite quotes.”

“What is?”

Draco looked at Harry for a long moment before replying.

“The difference between inspired medicine and uninspired medicine is love. When I met her, I knew: I loved her to the point of invention.”

”It rings true doesn’t it?” Harry smiled as Draco pushed his face into a pillow.   
  


“I guess so.” Came the muffled reply. “But never let me do it again, you’re an awful lab rat, you twitch.”   
  


“I’ll remind you of that the next time you need my help for something.”   
  


Draco turned over reluctantly and was greeted with a kiss on the forehead. “I suppose I’ll be able to squeeze in another invention or two... If you give me enough love.”

“Whatever, Draco.” Harry grabbed his hand underneath the covers, lightly tracing patterns over his knuckles. “As long as you come with me to get new frames fitted. Skeeter will have a fit if she sees me walking around without them.”

”I could make you some. Call it an inspired invention.” Draco kissed the side of Harry’s neck.

“Do you just want an extra five minutes in bed?” 

”Yes.”


End file.
